


Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker

by karotsamused



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), Teen Wolf (TV), Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)
Genre: AU - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Best Friends, Codes and Keys, Gen, Main Cast as Children, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karotsamused/pseuds/karotsamused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I, Peter Hale, have decided to allow five children to visit my factory this year. These lucky five will be shown around personally by me, and they will be allowed to see all the secrets and the magic of my factory. Then, at the end of the tour, as a special present, all of them will be given enough candies and confections to last them for the rest of their lives! So watch out for Golden Tickets! Five Golden Tickets have been printed on golden paper, hidden underneath the ordinary wrappers of five pinwheel lollipops. These pinwheel lollipops may be anywhere  in any shop in any street in any town in any country in the world - upon any counter where Hale's confections are sold. And the five lucky finders of these five Golden Tickets are the only ones who will be allowed to visit my factory and see what it's like now inside! Good luck to you all! Signed, Peter Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Golden Tickets

**Author's Note:**

> There are six children in this story:
> 
> Jackson Whittemore  
> (A greedy boy)
> 
> Lydia Martin  
> (A girl who is spoiled by her parents)
> 
> Allison Argent  
> (A girl who chews gum all day long)
> 
> Scott McCall  
> (A boy who lives in poverty with his best friend)
> 
> Stiles Stilinski  
> (A boy who lives in poverty with his best friend)
> 
> Derek Hale  
> (A nephew)

This very frail woman is the mother of Stiles Stilinski. Stiles was the name he gave himself.  
  
This very injured man is the father of Scott McCall. He was over six feet tall before he broke his back.  
  
This is Papa Stilinski, Stiles' father.  
  
This is Mother McCall, Scott's mother.  
  
The two small boys holding their hands are Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall.  
  
They are pleased to meet you.  
  
The whole of this family - the four grownups and two little boys - live together in a small wooden house on the edge of a great town.  
  
The house wasn't nearly large enough for so many people, and life was extremely uncomfortable for them all. There were only two rooms in the place altogether, and there was only one bed. The bed was given to Stiles' mother and Scott's father. Stiles' mother was so frail she never got out of bed. Scott's father was so injured he couldn't even sit up on his own.  
  
Papa Stilinski and Mother McCall slept on mattresses on either side of the bed in the same room.  
  
Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall slept in the other room, on a single mattress on the floor.  
  
In the summertime, it wasn't too bad. The boys stayed up late talking to one another, making up stories, telling each other their dreams. When the cool night blanketed out the heat of day, they would wrestle until the dust that they kicked up bothered Scott's lungs and he choked.  
  
In the winter, freezing cold drafts blew across the floor all night long. Stiles and Scott clung to each other and shivered, each of them a full ten years old. They were nearly grown men, too old to sneak under the blankets with their parents except on the absolute coldest nights.  
  
When Papa Stilinski awoke with his neck damp with Stiles' sweat and hot breath, he knew he would have to shovel the house out from under many feet of snow. When Mother McCall felt aches in her dreams from Scott's cold feet pressing into her thighs, she knew she would have to go and gather more sticks to put on the fire.  
  
There wasn't any question of them being able to buy a better house, or even one more bed to sleep in, so the married couples and their sons could share together. They were far too poor for that.  
  
Papa Stilinski was the only person in the family with a job. He worked in an art museum as a security guard overnight, walking the great empty halls to protect row upon row of beautiful paintings, arching sculptures, and, deep below ground, the jeweled heirlooms of the town itself. They were a well-kept secret, one he'd only whispered about to his wife, so of course the boys knew it.  
  
But no matter how thoroughly he patrolled, no matter how many burglaries he thwarted, he was never able to make enough to buy one-half of the things that so large a family needed.  
  
In the beginning, the Stilinskis and McCalls moved in together because, between them, Papa Stilinski and Father McCall - who was, until his accident, a construction worker - made enough so they could live, if not comfortably, then at least sufficiently. Mother McCall could care for Mama Stilinski and the boys, and for a while this arrangement suited them all well.  
  
When Father McCall was hurt, so his legs became as lead blocks, so he needed help to roll even onto his side, Mama Stilinski only shifted over in her tiny bed and helped Mother McCall arrange his feet next to her shoulders.  
  
With Papa Stilinski working alone, they didn't even have enough money for proper food. The only meals they could afford were bread and margarine for breakfast, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, and cabbage soup for supper.  
  
The family didn't starve, but every one of them - the two fathers, the two mothers, and especially little Stiles and Scott - went about from morning till night with a horrible empty feeling in their tummies.  
  
The little boys, growing as fast as they could, felt it worst of all. Although Stiles' father and Scott's mother often went without their own share of lunch or supper so they could give it to the boys, it still wasn't nearly enough. They desperately wanted something more filling and satisfying than cabbage and cabbage soup.  
  
Being little boys, the one thing they longed for above anything else was candy.  
  
Walking to school in the mornings, the boys could see great piles of candy stacked up high in shop windows. They would stop and stare and press their noses against the windows, mouths watering like mad. Many times of the day, they would see other children pull treats from their pockets, unwrap them, and suck them down greedily. It was torturous, and often they commiserated with their arms around one anothers' shoulders.  
  
Only twice a year, on the boys' birthdays, did they ever get to taste a sugary sweet. The whole family saved up their money for those special occasions, and when those two days arrived, the special boy would receive a piece of candy to eat all by himself.  
  
Scott loved jawbreakers. Stiles adored great spun-sugar lollipops. Though the largest jawbreakers, the most beautiful rainbow lollipops were too expensive for even once a year, each boy received his smaller version with effusive gratitude.  
  
And then, because the boys were only the best of friends, they would sneak into their shared room. The birthday boy would bash his present in two with a hammer and offer the smaller half to the other.  
  
Stiles didn't like the sour insides of jawbreakers, or the way they puckered his cheeks. Scott didn't like the hidden bubbles in lollipops, or the way they cut his tongue.  
  
But between them, they could make their tiny, shared presents last for days and days. They were too precious to gobble down. They permitted themselves each one tiny lick when they could hardly stand it. When they were sick in the winter, with stopped-up noses that kept them from tasting, they refused to touch them at all.  
  
If one was sick but the other wasn't, or if Scott's asthma left him coughing with a raw throat, if there was any reason one couldn't delight in his present with the other, they waited.  
  
But all of this control, all of this abstinence only kept their focus from the one, most horrible, most devastating truth. This thing was, for them, far, far worse than seeing candy piled up in the shops, worse than watching the other children gobble down sweets as fast as they could unwrap them. It was the most terrible, torturous truth, and it was this:  
  
In the town itself, actually within sight of the house in which the boys lived, there was an enormous candy factory.  
  
It wasn't simply an ordinary enormous factory either. It was the largest and most famous in the whole world. It was Hale's Confectionery, owned by the Hale Family, the greatest inventors and spinners of sugar the world had ever known.  
  
When the boys were very, very little, the Hale Confectionery churned out truckload by truckload of sugary sweets. The boys learned to count, watching them go by.  
  
When the boys were very little, the Hale Confectionery burned down, and the scents of smoke and burned sugar clung to their little wooden house for weeks and weeks, bitter like their grief.  
  
But recently, the factory had recovered. Father McCall had longed to help rebuild the factory, and the sounds of construction, of cranes and jackhammers and nail guns had pained him as badly as his aching bones.  
  
The factory again stood tall behind its great, concrete walls. It again churned out truckload after truckload, though Stiles had done the math and realized that production was down by thirty percent. Mama Stilinski and Father McCall had told Mother that if positions opened in the factory, they would manage without her so she could work.  
  
Every day, on the way to and from school, Stiles and Scott would walk right past the gates of the factory.  
  
They never saw anyone go in or out, and never saw a notice of open positions. But every day, they looked. They'd whispered to each other about what it might be like, if Scott's mother could actually work  _inside_ that miraculous building. She could tell them what went on inside it, could tell them how they made candy that seemed to taste better every time they ate it. She might even come home every day smelling like sugar, with a dusting of it on the shoulders of her uniform, with sprinkles in her hair and secrets snuck home in her pockets.  
  
One day, when the boys got home and had, again, to say that Hale's Factory hadn't put out a request for workers, Father McCall said, "Don't keep your hopes up, boys."  
  
When the boys' faces fell, Mama Stilinski said, "Come, now. A little hope is good for everyone. Just because they haven't started hiring doesn't mean they won't."  
  
Father McCall frowned at her. "If they haven't yet, why would they start now? Everything's running, isn't it?"  
  
"Only at seventy percent capacity," interjected Stiles, in defense of his mother.  
  
Mama Stilinski smiled. "There, you see? I'm sure they haven't finished rebuilding all the way. And there are just some jobs that can't be done by machine, no matter how well a process can be automated."  
  
"Robots can do anything these days," said Father McCall.  
  
Mother McCall said, "You yourself have said that nothing beats a craftsman's skill. Candy-making and construction are remarkably similar."  
  
Mama Stilinski beckoned the boys closer, until they stood pressed right up against the edge of the bed. "And I'll tell you boys a secret," she murmured through dry lips. "My father, your grandfather,  _worked_ in the Hale Confectionery when I was just a little girl."  
  
The boys gasped, dropping to their knees in rapt attention, their chins on the mattress.  
  
"Really?" cried Scott.  
  
"You never told me that!" cried Stiles.  
  
"Oh, he did. He worked with the peanuts. Peanut brittle, peanut toffee, peanut bars. He was one of the elephant trainers."  
  
Stiles wrinkled his nose. "Don't lie," he said, while Scott dissolved into giggles.  
  
Mama Stilinski shook her head. "It's all true. The Hales were geniuses of unimaginable proportion. They invented bubble gum that reacts when you blow bubbles to float on their own - "  
  
"But Argent's makes those," interrupted Scott, frowning.  
  
"They invented candy vegetables with all of the vitamins and minerals of real vegetables, and twice the fiber - "  
  
"But Greenberg's makes those," interrupted Scott again.  
  
"They made marzipan chickens that laid marzipan eggs when you bit into them - "  
  
"But - " Scott began.  
  
"All of those other companies were stealing from them?!" interrupted Stiles. His jaw dropped with horror.  
  
Mama Stilinski nodded gravely. "Yes. The thievery got so bad that one day, with no warning, the Hales fired all of the workers and closed the factory doors for good."  
  
Scott blinked. "They fired everybody? Did they all go broke?"  
  
Mama Stilinski smiled. "They were generous with their severance, Scott. Everyone was paid their regular wages until he or she could find another job. The Hales could afford it, back then."  
  
Stiles bit his lip. "If nobody works there, how do they stay in production?"  
  
"It's a great mystery," said Mama Stilinski. "But ever since then I've never seen anybody come in or go out."  
  
Scott glanced at his father, who shook his head. "I haven't either," he agreed, looking over the boys' heads to the window. "It's a ghost building, was even before the fire. But still."  
  
"Has anyone asked the Hales how they do it?" asked Scott, putting his chin on his arms.  
  
"Nobody's seen them since the gates closed. None of them have ever come out. Not even when the factory was on fire," said Father McCall.  
  
Mother McCall said, "The gates didn't even open for the fire fighters. The building just burned down. Some people think they did it on purpose, because of the problems they'd always been having with spies."  
  
"Didn't the police investigate?" asked Scott.  
  
Stiles said, "Not if they were going to spy."  
  
Mama Stilinski nodded. "That's right, well thought. Since the doors closed, not even the police have come in."  
  
Just then, Papa Stilinski burst through the front door. He had left only moments before for the art gallery.  
  
Mother McCall rose in alarm. "What's wrong?"  
  
Papa Stilinski waved the evening newspaper over his head. "Have you heard the news?" he cried. He held up the paper so they could see the headline.  
  
The headline read:  
  
HALE CONFECTIONERY TO BE OPENED AT LAST TO LUCKY FEW  
  
"You're kidding!" cried Scott, leaping to his feet. "What's it say?"  
  
"Are you going to be late to work?" asked Mother McCall, coming forward.  
  
Papa Stilinski unfolded the paper and said, "No, I'll run. You  _have_ to hear this."  
  
He snapped the paper so it stood taut between his hands, and read aloud.  
  
"The Patriarch of the renowned candy-making Hale Family, Peter Hale, sent out the following notice today:  
  
"I, Peter Hale, have decided to allow five children to visit my factory this year. These lucky five will be shown around personally by me, and they will be allowed to see all the secrets and the magic of my factory. Then, at the end of the tour, as a special present, all of them will be given enough candies and confections to last them for the rest of their lives! So watch out for Golden Tickets! Five Golden Tickets have been printed on golden paper, hidden underneath the ordinary wrappers of five pinwheel lollipops. These pinwheel lollipops may be anywhere  in any shop in any street in any town in any country in the world - upon any counter where Hale's confections are sold. And the five lucky finders of these five Golden Tickets are the only ones who will be allowed to visit my factory and see what it's like now inside! Good luck to you all! Signed, Peter Hale."  
  
"The man's insane," muttered Father McCall.  
  
"He's brilliant," breathed Mama Stilinski. "The whole world is going to go crazy over pinwheel lollipops."  
  
"Imagine what it would be like to find one," said Mother McCall.  
  
"All the candy you could eat for the rest of your life, free. They'd have to ship it in by truckload," said Papa Stilinski.  
  
"That's a stomachache waiting to happen," said Mother McCall.  
  
Mama Stilinski waved a hand. "Nonsense. It would be  _amazing_. Wouldn't it, boys?"  
  
Scott and Stiles nodded in unison. "It would," agreed Scott, "but for my birthday I get a jawbreaker, not a pinwheel lollipop."  
  
"And I get a lollipop, but my birthday only comes once a year," said Stiles.  
  
"But that once a year is next week," said Mama Stilinski. "You have as much of a chance as anyone else."  
  
"That would be true if everybody else only bought one," said Father McCall. "Compared to the fat, rich kids that get to buy ten or twenty a day? The odds against Stiles are astronomical."  
  
Stiles smiled then, thinly. "Even if I won, Scott wouldn't get to go."  
  
Scott leaned their shoulders together. "Don't be stupid. If you win you  _better_ go."  
  
"Don't lose hope, boys," counseled Mama Stilinski.  
  
When Papa Stilinski leaned down to kiss her before he ran off to work for the night, her smile was incandescent, her lips pinker than they had been in days.  
  
Stiles watched his dad run to work, smelled the cabbage soup boiling on the stove, then said, "Can I go to the library?"  
  
"It's nearly dark, Stiles. I'm sorry," said Mother McCall.  
  
"I'll go with him," said Scott, looking up at his mother.  
  
"No, boys. It's not safe for you to run around town at night. There's going to be another freeze before morning." She lifted her chin, already moving to put hats on the two bedridden grown-ups. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow."  
  
Stiles bit his lip. Scott said, "Aw, mom. Come on. Please?"  
  
Mother McCall said, "No means no. Now go wash up. The soup's almost done."  
  
With twin sighs, the boys did as they were told. They washed their hands and their faces, and ate their cabbage soup, and did their homework, and hunkered down on their mattress to wait out the freezing night.  
  
When they began to whisper to each other about golden tickets and pinwheel lollipops, Scott asked, "Why did you want to go to the library?"  
  
Stiles smiled at him. "It's a secret. Okay?"  
  
"You always tell me your secrets!" whined Scott, wiggling in closer.  
  
A draft ruffled their blanket, and Stiles shivered. "Well this one's a really, really big secret. I can't tell anybody."  
  
Scott eyed him, wrinkling his nose. "Are you gonna get in trouble?"  
  
"No!" said Stiles, and grinned. "Just trust me, okay? Wait and see."  
  
Scott huffed and put his cold nose on Stiles' forehead. Stiles yelped, and they wrestled until they were warm enough to sleep.  
  
Stiles' plan was in fact a simple one. He knew the name of the shipping company, and how to calculate the time it would take to ship, even overnight, from the Hale Confectionery to any shop in the world. He could adjust for weather patterns, for shipments that went over air or sea. He could adjust for store openings, even extended hours brought on by the rush on the candy.  
  
The wrappers on the pinwheel lollipops did not have serial numbers, but they were not entirely opaque either. Each had a tiny window to display the rainbow pattern of sugar within, and each batch was infinitesimally different.  
  
With the right mathematics, the right research, and the first ticket winner, Stiles could - conceivably - find a winning lollipop by sight.  
  
Stiles didn't have to wait long. One day after he finished all his classwork early and got sent to the library so he wouldn't distract his classmates, after he commandeered one of the old gray box computers in the back room to perform his research, the first ticket winner was announced.  
  
On their walk home from school, Stiles and Scott paused outside a pub that had a television on with the volume at maximum.  
  
The first winner was a boy named Jackson Whittemore, who sat sullenly with the pinwheel lollipop in one hand and the Golden Ticket in the other. He was no more than nine years old, with perfect skin, the blue eyes of an angel, and a short crop of gray-blond hair. His features were so painfully expressive it seemed as though his eyebrows ached when they furrowed.  
  
His parents stood tall behind him, their hands on his shoulders. They were dressed well, with every marker of upper-middle-class wealth and rosy pink cheeks.  
  
The reporters asked, "How did you find it?"  
  
"I opened the wrapper?" sneered Jackson, looking away. "How do you think? This whole thing is just chance."  
  
"His grandmother got it for him," said Jackson's mother, smiling gently. "She loves to bring him sweets."  
  
"He'll always be her little boy," said Jackson's father, nodding. "And imagine our surprise!"  
  
Jackson lifted his chin. "I heard there's a grand prize even bigger than the lifetime supply of candy. If that's a competition, that's the only time this contest will actually find a winner."  
  
"He's always excelled at everything he's put his mind to," said Jackson's father.  
  
"He's an achiever," echoed Jackson's mother, smiling down at her son. "I have no doubt that his competition will be in real trouble."  
  
Jackson's expression tightened, but it was with pride.  
  
But then, it soured completely when his father leaned down and told him that he loved him.  
  
Scott said, "One down."  
  
Stiles said, "Yeah, and he doesn't look to happy about it."  
  
Scott sighed. "Well. Four left."  
  
Sties nodded. "Yeah."  
  
Scott turned to walk away, but Stiles remained, squinting at the screen. As the reporters zoomed in on Jackson's hands, he took a step closer to the bar.  
  
In Jackson's left hand, he held the Golden Ticket. In his right, the lollipop. Stiles stared hard at those rainbow stripes, trying desperately to memorize them. To know the batch from which it was made, to remember it.  
  
He gave the colors letters, and durations, until he knew them like a song in his head.  
  
It was a little like "You Are My Sunshine," until it turned into the Wedding March.  
  
The barkeep noticed him on the threshold and cried, "This isn't a place for children! Go home, kid."  
  
Scott grabbed Stiles by the arm and hauled him away.  
  
In the days that followed, the world was beset by a sugar rush never before seen. People spent their entire paychecks on pinwheel lollipops, carrying them home in bushels. Children purchased handfuls, waving them about like peacock's plumage. There were stories of crime bosses staging major heists and spending all of their spoils on lollipops within just hours after the smoke cleared.  
  
Stiles just did the math as best he could, but every time he went to a candy shop to examine the patterns on the lollipops they were snatched out from under him to be purchased. He barely got through a note or two in his mental code before each lollipop was gone.  
  
A day before Stiles' birthday, the second ticket winner was announced.  
  
Stiles found his father crouched over their tiny table, the newspaper spread out before him.  
  
"You're up early," he said softly, coming to sit by his dad and leaning over the paper.  
  
"Argent?!" he yelped as he read the name. "Isn't that the name of the  _competition_?"  
  
Papa Stilinski smiled wryly. "At first I thought it was because it was a common name, but she's actually the granddaughter of the man that founded the Argent chocolate company in France. What are the odds?"  
  
Stiles leaned in to get a better look. In the picture was a pretty young girl with wavy, dark hair she wore in low, braided pigtails. Her name was Allison, and her lollipop sang "You Are My Sunshine".  
  
At least Stiles knew he'd been right. According to the article, Alison had, as any young girl, been curious. But she bought just one lollipop, and found it on the first try. Allison's mother, who was not pictured, had said that it was obvious Allison had been destined to win. Her father, who was not pictured, had said that she was going to go as a little girl, not an Argent.  
  
Papa Stilinski said, "Well, I hope she has fun."  
  
"We should see how many knockoffs come out of this visit," said Father McCall from the bed. "Even if she doesn't mean to, she's going to rave to mommy and daddy about how wonderful it was."  
  
Papa Stilinski waved a hand. "Children are the worst spies ever. Even if she tells them what she sees, there's no way they'll be able to recreate the Hales' work without some kinds of specifications."  
  
"Worst spies ever?" echoed Stiles, clasping his chest like he'd been wounded. "Dad, that's not fair! What about the time when I - "  
  
"You left footprints on the windowsill, and if I already know about it without your confession, it makes you a poor spy," said Papa Stilinski, ruffing his son's hair. "Though I didn't notice until after you'd taken your mother's extra button, so really you're just poor at covering your tracks."  
  
Stiles crowed. "Ha! I put that button  _back_!"  
  
"Two whole days later," agreed Mama Stilinski drowsily, as she had just woken from a nap. "And thank you for that."  
  
Stiles deflated, but he leaned over the newspaper again anyway. "So I was thinking about my birthday."  
  
"I'll get your present tomorrow, never fear," said Mother McCall.  
  
Stiles lifted his head and smiled.  
  
"Actually, if it's okay, could you please give me the money and I'll buy it for myself?"  
  
Mother McCall put her hands on her hips. "What, do you think I'm somehow unlucky?"  
  
"Stiles," said Papa Stilinski, with reproach in his tone.  
  
"No, no, that's not it at all." Stiles smiled and shrugged. "I'm afraid that when my present doesn't have a ticket, you'd feel that way anyway."  
  
Scott came running into the house with a torn flyer and bright pink cheeks. "They found the third ticket! It's another girl, in Great Britain!"  
  
Stiles' smile didn't change, but Mother McCall's face fell all the same. "When there's no ticket," said Stiles, "it'll only be my bad luck."  
  
Papa Stilinski pulled Stiles into his lap and said, "Let's see that flyer, Scott." His arms wrapped tightly around Stiles so he couldn't squirm away.  
  
Scott lay the flyer on top of the newspaper. It had a family portrait with a mother, father, and daughter, all smiles. The little girl was named Lydia Martin, and she had long, curly red hair that spilled over her shoulders. Her parents were, each of them, the heads of two very important, very rich families. They had purchased hundreds of thousands of pinwheel lollipops, and had their servants break them open until a winner had been found.  
  
Lydia looked confident and assured, smiling winningly for the camera. She wore a fur stole and a pretty frock coat. The jewels on her mother's fingers were as large as gumdrops.  
  
She wasn't holding her lollipop, only her ticket. Stiles leaned against his father's broad chest and heard the song in his head. He hoped against hope that he was right.  
  
Scott said, "All the winners have been rich. That's not fair!"  
  
"No," agreed Father McCall, "it's not. That's how life is. People with money get things because they have money. And to make money, you need to have money to start with."  
  
"Oh, shut up, you old fusspot," said Mama Stilinski. "That doesn't mean there isn't a chance."  
  
"Two chances," said Papa Stilinski, resting his chin on Stiles' head. When Stiles promptly squirmed out from under him, he laughed and squeezed his son a bit tighter. "There are still two tickets left."  
  
Mother McCall set a coin on the tabletop. She said, "Happy Birthday, Stiles. Pick out your present whenever you want to."  
  
Stiles blinked at the coin. As he held it, he knew it was the most money he'd ever held in his whole life, if only because of the amount of promise it had.  
  
That night, Stiles hardly slept. Scott stayed up with him, wriggling around to keep warm in the vicious draft.  
  
"Do you think you're gonna find it?" asked Scott, his eyes full of wonder and hope. "You could."  
  
"There are two left," said Stiles, wrapping his arms around himself. "The odds of that are. Astronomical."  
  
"But still!" Scott put his freezing cold feet on Stiles' freezing cold feet. They bicycled against one another. "You could get one!"  
  
"If I get one, you're getting half a lifetime supply of candy. Okay?"  
  
Scott smiled. "For my birthday he better have another contest."  
  
Stiles laughed. They bicycled harder, until Stiles' knees hit him in the chest, and then they settled down again. They curled close together around the tiny quarter in Stiles' hand.  
  
Scott ran his fingertips over it, over and over. "Good luck," he whispered, and closed Stiles' fingers over it.  
  
Stiles slept with the coin clasped in his palm. When they woke in the morning, they scrambled to get dressed so they could rush to school, then rush to the candy store.  
  
But on their way out, Mama Stilinski said, "Boys, wait."  
  
She pulled a small pouch from the inner recesses of her coat and said, "I see two young men in front of me, and there are  _two_ tickets left to be found."  
  
She produced from the pouch a shiny dollar coin. "You both deserve a fair chance. Do it for me."  
  
"But," said Stiles. "That's so much - that's way too much money."  
  
Scott nodded, though his expression was tight with longing. "We can't."  
  
Mama Stilinski smiled. "You can and you should. I want to see two pinwheel lollipops come home with you boys this afternoon. Have I made myself clear?"  
  
Stiles swallowed, and looked over at Scott.  
  
Scott said, "You should take it. She's your mom."  
  
Stiles bit his lip, but then he held out both hands. Mama Stilinski dropped the coin for him to catch. It was so very heavy, so very wonderfully heavy.  
  
"What should we get for you?" he asked, knowing that they now had one dollar and twenty-five cents, which was enough to buy two lollipops and then some.  
  
"Come home safe to me, boys. Now run along before you're late for school."  
  
Stiles hid the dollar with the quarter in the innermost pocket of his shirt, where he could feel them heavy against his chest every time he breathed.  
  
They ran pell-mell to school, electric with hope, shivering with their secret. It was hard enough to contain that they disrupted class multiple times.  
  
Finally, their teacher said, "Which of you is starting all of this nonsense? He'll be held back in detention all afternoon!"  
  
The boys looked at one another. Stiles gulped. Scott raised his hand. "It was me," he said.  
  
"Detention, young man," said their teacher. "You will learn to respect your class."  
  
Stiles squeezed Scott's other hand under the desk. Scott gave him a smile. When the teacher turned her back again, Scott leaned in and whispered, "You better win, Stiles."  
  
Stiles forced himself not to wiggle, not to giggle, or jump, or scream. If only he could find the lollipops that had the right colors. He'd know them in an instant.  
  
After school, Stiles left Scott to write down, five hundred times, "I WILL NOT DISRUPT CLASS. I WILL BE RESPECTFUL TO MY TEACHERS." Scott didn't seem particularly upset, because he'd spent the entire lunch recess demanding one promise from Stiles.  
  
"Don't open them until I'm there."  
  
"I won't. I swear I won't."  
  
"Don't do it!"  
  
"I won't! I promise!"  
  
"You swear?"  
  
"Cross my heart and hope to die."  
  
Even as Stiles left the classroom, he crossed his heart again so Scott could see.  
  
Then he ran full-tilt toward the nearest candy store, humming under his breath.  
  
Reports of another winner were already filtering through the streets. A man in Russia had discovered the winning lollipop just that morning, and with only one ticket left to win, parts of the world were buying even more frenziedly than before.  
  
Others, including Stiles' small town, had settled into inevitable spectatorship. The candy store was nearly empty, and a display of Hale's pinwheel lollipops stood unmolested by the cash register.  
  
It was no coincidence that Stiles had chosen this particular store. If he'd done his research correctly, this store was on the delivery route for the shipment of one of the winning lollipops. Waiting until he'd had the money had been absolute, utter torture, and it had been worse not telling Scott.  
  
Stiles approached the counter carefully, taking his sweet time. The cashier gave him an indulgent smile and said, "Are you feeling lucky today, young man? There's only one left."  
  
Absently, Stiles said, "I bet you that one's a fake."  
  
The cashier blinked at him. "Either you're arrogant, son, or prejudiced."  
  
Stiles didn't look up from the display, his heart racing as he started counting color patterns on the lollipops. "No, not based on the shipments around the time of the announcement. There's no way the lollipop was sent to Russia. Unless he got it through a connection in China. Even then, it's more likely to show up in Japan."  
  
"What?" said the cashier, looking faintly alarmed.  
  
Stiles didn't answer. At the far left side of the display were  _two_ lollipops, singing to him in perfect unison. "You Are My Sunshine", followed by the Wedding March.  
  
Gingerly, he lifted both lollipops and brought them closer to his face, singing under his breath as he compared the stripes of color.  
  
He examined every other lollipop in the display, hands shaking with certainty.  
  
He handed the cashier the dollar. "Just these two, please," he said.  
  
The cashier rang him up. Then, with the beginnings of belief, he asked, "Aren't you going to open them? Here?"  
  
Stiles looked up from the lollipops. He held his hand out for the fifty cents' change, and pocketed it.  
  
Then, he tucked the lollipops into his coat, and said, "No, sir. One of these is for my brother."  
  
Stiles left before he was tempted to tear both open and prove to himself he'd done it right. He ran home, and pressed the lollipops under his mother's pillow and begged, "We can't open them until Scott's back."  
  
"Where is he?" asked Father McCall.  
  
Stiles flushed. "Um," he said, and then launched into an explanation. "He, uh, well. We were disrespectful in class. We got caught. And Scott said it was his fault so only he had detention, so I could go to the candy store."  
  
He hung his head, then pulled three quarters from his pocket. "I brought your change."  
  
Mama Stilinski sighed, and reached out to pet Stiles' hair where it stuck out from under his cap.  
  
"You take one of those and you give it to Mrs. McCall. The other two, you share with Scott. And the next time you get into trouble,  _you_ are going to detention."  
  
Stiles blinked, but then nodded quickly. He said, "Yes, mama," and bounded across the floor to Mother McCall, where she was chopping cabbage in the kitchen. He held up the quarter and said, "Here."  
  
Mother McCall accepted the quarter, and put it into the broken teacup she used for their spare change. It clinked as it hit the bottom.  
  
"Thank you, Stiles," she said.  
  
He swallowed and turned back to the room at large. "I'm sorry I got in trouble at school," he said.  
  
"Well, now you've got to pay for it, don't you," said Father McCall. "You're suffering just as much as Scott is, aren't you?"  
  
Stiles bit his lip on a grin. "You're right, sir. But it's only maybe another hour, right?"  
  
Mother McCall smiled at him, then. "Well, Stiles. You can help me clean."  
  
While they waited for Scott, Stiles helped mop the entire floor. He wiped down the windows and dusted the mantel, straightened the bedclothes for the grownups and washed down the butter knife they used for margarine in the mornings.  
  
Scott came in through the front door, red-faced and out of breath. "Did you get them?" he panted.  
  
Stiles dropped the butter knife and nodded. "Uh huh. Yeah. They're under my mom's pillow."  
  
"You didn't open them?" asked Scott, shifting from foot to foot while Mama Stilinski retrieved the lollipops, wrappers unbroken.  
  
Stiles stood beside him. "I said I wouldn't, and I didn't!"  
  
Mama Stilinski held out two pinwheel lollipops, each identical in every way.  
  
"You pick one," said Scott, wiping his palms on his pants legs. "It's your birthday."  
  
Stiles looked over at him and swallowed. "At the same time. Okay?"  
  
Scott nodded. They counted to three together, then reached out and each took the lollipop in front of him. With barely a glance at one another, they tore the wrappers away.  
  
When Papa Stilinski staggered out of the boys' room, where he slept during the day, to find the source of the ruckus, he was met with two screaming boys clutching two golden tickets, and three grownups hiding the tears in their eyes.


	2. Meeting Peter Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the morning of February the first, and Stiles and Scott are finally going to get to enter Hale's factory!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I have been under a rock for a million years ack sorry here have a chapter? Please enjoy. Thanks a million to my lovely beta Bean and ugh I am so sick I am going to go to bed now.

These were the things that Stiles could not possibly have known:  
  
The owner of the store from which Stiles had bought the two winning pinwheel lollipops actually managed three locations throughout the city. One of those locations had to close because of some construction work to repair a frozen pipe in the building next door. Usually, because candy could last such a very long time, even in the cold, the shipment would have been delivered to the store as scheduled, and reserved until the store could open again. However, because the pinwheel lollipops had been such fantastically powerful sellers, the owner had made the decision to take all of the shipments destined for the closed store and split them evenly between his other two. The two boxes with the winning lollipops had been settled very far apart from one another on the truck, but they arrived in the same storeroom at the same time.  
  
As Stiles' calculations had predicted, one of the boxes with the winning lollipops had actually been destined for China. However, the violent cold that had taken Stiles' little town that winter had been just as hard for the rest of the world's winters, including China's. Airport closures were common because the pilots could barely see through the snow, and the shipping docks were a dangerous mess of ice and frigid water. The shipment with the winning lollipop had been on a truck to head to a shipping facility, where it would be loaded on a plane, when the dispatcher told the driver not to come. It was far too dangerous to send a shipment into those storms, not that day. Instead, all of the candy in the shipment had been bought up by nearby stores desperate for more pinwheel lollipops.  
  
Stiles had based his choice of lollipop on a series of mental equivalencies: each color became a number, and each number became a note on an octave scale, so that the winning lollipops' colors corresponded to the notes for "You Are My Sunshine" from left to right.   
  
The colors went like this:  
  
Red = 1 = The lowest note in the neutral major scale, C  
Orange = 2 = The second lowest note, D  
Yellow = 3 = E  
Green = 4 = F  
Blue = 5 = G  
Violet = 6 = A  
Pink = 7 = B  
White = 8 = C again, only an octave higher. Or a placeholder note to help the mnemonic song make sense. Stiles had been prepared to account for sharps or flats, or drumbeats, or the crash of a cymbal.  
  
So the winning lollipops had stripes, from the outside left to the center, in this order: blue, red, orange, yellow, white, yellow, orange, yellow, red, white, red, orange, yellow, violet. After the violet stripe it changed quite abruptly to the wedding march in orange and blue, at which point it disappeared under the opaque part of the wrapper.  
  
What Stiles had hoped, but couldn't know for certain, was that the five winning lollipops had all been made not only in the same batch, but as the _only_ output of that batch. He had to hope that the colors were a clue to clever children, that perhaps the contest had been rigged to account not only for the artificial luck of rich people assisting their own odds by buying hundreds of treats, but also for an intelligent, obsessed, determined little boy with nothing else to stoke his hope.  
  
Even then, as he'd waited for Scott to return home so they could both open their lollipops, he'd hoped that if only one of them won, the winner would be Scott. He was too used to longing for the things he didn't have, and not comfortable enough with having something wondrous that he couldn't share.  
  
When the boys each found a golden ticket, they let out great surprised screams and danced from foot to foot, all cold and hunger forgotten. They waved the tickets about at one another, giving great jumps for joy and rushing around to show their parents over and over, from frail Mama Stilinski to hurt Father McCall to thin Mother McCall to exhausted Papa Stilinski.  
  
Finally they slowed enough that Papa Stilinski could catch Scott and hug him to his chest. "Boys, my boys," he said, "Quickly. Read them!"  
  
Mother McCall said, "Yes, please, let us know what they say!"  
  
Stiles skidded to a halt beside Scott. He bounced onto his toes over and over, but together they lifted their shiny, golden tickets and read:  
  
"Greetings to you, the lucky finder of this Golden Ticket, from the Hale Family! Many wonderful things await you. This ticket is your official invitation to come to my factory and be my guest for one whole day. I, Peter Hale, will conduct you around the factory myself, showing you everything there is to see. And afterwards, when it is time to leave, you will be escorted home by a procession of large trucks. These trucks, I can promise you, will be loaded with enough delicious eatables to last you and your entire household for many years. If at any time you should run out of supplies, you need only return to my factory and show your Golden Ticket, and Hale's Confectionery will happily refill your cupboards with anything you want. You will be able to keep yourself supplied for the _rest of your life_!"  
  
At this point, the two boys had to stop and dance in mad circles around the room.   
  
"Full cupboards!" cried Stiles.   
  
"Endless candy!" cried Scott. "Candy forever!"  
  
"There must be more on the tickets," said Mama Stilinski, her eyes bright with excitement. "Don't stop now!"  
  
Scott ran to the bed and held up his ticket so his father could read it over his shoulder. Stiles climbed up beside his mother and tilted his ticket toward her.  
  
Together, the boys read:  
  
"But this is not the most exciting thing that will happen on the day of your visit. There are other surprises that are even more marvelous and fantastic for you. Mystical and marvelous surprises that will entrance, delight, intrigue, astonish, and perplex you beyond measure. In your wildest dreams you could not imagine that such things could happen to you! And now, here are your instructions: The day I have chosen for the visit is the first day in the month of February. On this day, you must come to the factory gates at ten o'clock sharp in the morning. You are allowed to bring with you one member of your family to look after you to ensure that you don't get into mischief. Don't be late. Don't forget your ticket, or you will not be admitted!"  
  
The boys lowered their tickets and stared across the bed at one another.  
  
"The first of February is tomorrow!" they cried in unison. "Tomorrow, tomorrow!"  
  
"Then you're just in time, aren't you," said Mama Stilinski. "And with not a moment to lose. Are you going to go to the factory with such dirty faces?"  
  
"Such dirty clothes! Wash your faces, comb your hair, clean your nails! You had better be respectable," said Father McCall.  
  
"Now, hold on," said Mother McCall. "Before we all get carried away, we have to decide which of us will take the boys."  
  
Mama Stilinski said, "I don't see how it's so terribly difficult to decide."  
  
Father McCall said, "The two of us in this bed are not going to prevent any sorts of mischief."  
  
"But neither can you care for yourselves. And you," said Mother McCall, turning to Papa Stilinski, "need your sleep."  
  
Papa Stilinski sighed. "My dear, the boys _must_ have a guardian. You should take them. The three of us will manage."  
  
"Balderdash," said Mama Stilinski. "The both of you will take them. There is enough mischief in Stiles by himself for two grownups already."  
  
Stiles said, "Hey!"  
  
"While that's true, we can't leave you," said Mother McCall, smiling.  
  
Mama Stilinski squared her shoulders, and with a great push she sat up, put her feet on the floor, and stood.   
  
"I believe we shall manage for one day," she said, lifting her chin.  
  
Stiles gaped, then crawled across the bed to kneel before her. "Mama! What are you doing?"  
  
"Miracles can give anyone strength, my boy," she said, petting his hair. "And even an invalid can keep a house for just one day."  
  
"Not if she stands on this freezing floor in bare feet!" said Papa Stilinski, rushing to her to sweep her up into his arms. He cradled her as he helped her back under the bedcovers. "Are you absolutely sure?"  
  
She smiled up at him and said, "Absolutely."  
  
"So is it settled?" asked Scott, wiggling about next to his father. "Are we going?"  
  
"You should sleep tonight, papa," said Stiles. "So you're well-rested for tomorrow."  
  
"We're going," said Mother McCall, coming to hold Scott so he wouldn't jostle his father.  
  
"I'm working tonight," said Papa Stilinski. "Lifetime supply of candy or not, we'll need more than sugar."  
  
"Hale's makes sweetbreads too," said Stiles. "Maybe we could ask if they make regular bread?"  
  
"Now, Stiles," began Papa Stilinski.  
  
Mama Stilinski touched his arm. "Get your rest. I expect you to tell me everything you see tomorrow, in exquisite detail. If you are at all sleepy you won't remember it for me."  
  
When Papa Stilinski relented, then, and kissed her, Stiles didn't even say "Ew."  
  
"Are you sure you'll be alright?" asked Mother McCall, looking down to her husband.  
  
Father McCall sighed. "If you stoke the fire before you go, it will burn all day until you get back. We'll be fine enough."  
  
She leaned down, and kissed him. Scott just squirmed until she sat back up, but was then given a kiss of his own, big and wet on his cheek.  
  
"Okay," said Mother McCall, as Scott wiped his face on her shoulder. "We'll all go. The four of us."  
  
Stiles and Scott shared a smile, each clutching his Golden Ticket to his chest.  
  
"But now it's time to wash up for dinner. Go on with you, now."  
  
The boys clambered from the bed and washed up. They sat obediently and ate their cabbage soup for dinner, and Stiles helped to clean up after dinner for having left Scott in detention on his own.   
  
Then, they smashed both lollipops with their hammer and shared the pieces with everyone else in the house.  
  
"Marvelous!" said Mother McCall.  
  
"Delicious!" said Papa Stilinski.  
  
"Fantastic!" said Father McCall.  
  
"Amazing!" said Mama Stilinski.  
  
The brightly-colored, fruity sugar coated their tongues and ran down their throats and filled them up with the most wonderful sweetness and anticipation.  
  
"Starting tomorrow," said Scott, "We can have stuff like this every day. All day, if we want to."  
  
"We could probably sell some of it," said Stiles, considering. "Or trade it, if the Hales say we can't."  
  
"Agreed," said Scott, nodding. "And, I mean, if they'll refill the cupboards whenever we show the ticket, don't we only need _one_ ticket? We only have one kitchen to fill."  
  
Stiles smiled. "Yes! We'll sell the other one!"  
  
The grownups, troubled by the sentiment tumbling from their sons, each burst out with a separate protest all at once.  
  
Mother McCall finally rose above the other three and said, "Nobody is selling _anything_. Why, I bet it would be breaking the rules of the contest if you even tried it."  
  
"Well, we could ask," protested Stiles. "Couldn't we?"  
  
"Politely," added Scott, nodding. "We'll be real polite."  
  
"The only thing I want to hear you saying is 'thank you' to Mister Hale," said Papa Stilinski.  
  
At that point, there came a loud knock on the front door.  
  
Papa Stilinski went to open it. Two policemen and a swarm of reporters and photographers burst through the door. The neighbors had heard the boys' screams and suspected foul play. The police had come to investigate, but had overheard talk of the Golden Ticket through the thin, drafty walls, and news had gotten around. The reporters all wanted to get the full story ahead of one another. For hours, the house was in complete pandemonium, and it must have been midnight before Papa Stilinski was able to get rid of them so they could all go to bed.  
  
The boys curled up on their mattress together, the Golden Tickets tucked away under their pillow, and clung to each other against the cold. They whispered to each other into the small hours of the morning, excited beyond tiredness, until sleep overtook each of them by surprise.  
  
Morning came with bright sunshine over a fresh blanket of white snow. Mama Stilinski and Father McCall smiled from their beds, bidding goodbye to Papa Stilinski, Mother McCall, Scott, and Stiles as they stepped out into the cold of day and made their way through the throngs of onlookers to the front gates of Hale's Confectionery.  
  
The gates were thick, iron bars spaced so close together that not even a child's arm could fit through. The crowd stood around them, small children pressing their faces as close to the gates as they could without sticking. The crowd was packed so tightly that Mother McCall and Papa Stilinski had to lift their sons onto their shoulders so the boys could show their Golden Tickets and get to the front.  
  
When they stood before the front gates, the boys could see that the other three children had each brought a parent.  
  
Jackson Whittemore, the boy with the angelic face, stood with his father eating a steaming-hot breakfast sandwich, with egg and sausage and thick slabs of bacon.  
  
The boys, having each eaten a piece of toast for breakfast, felt their mouths water terribly. When Jackson looked over at them, his lip curled with such disdain that they were embarrassed of their hunger and turned away.  
  
Lydia Martin, the redheaded girl from Great Britain, stood beside her father, her beautiful curly hair spilling over her shoulders. Her father was in a fine suit under a heavy wool coat, and his shoes were polished to such a shine that even the snow didn't cling to them.  
  
Stiles couldn't take his eyes away from Lydia, with the snow lending a pretty pink flush to her cheeks. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, with bright red lips and shining blue eyes and eyelashes that seemed to lay like butterfly's wings.   
  
Scott, on the other hand, was similarly entranced with Allison Argent, the pretty brunette from France. She stood with her mother, her shoulders squared and her back straight, her hair pulled back into a thick braid. Even though it was cold, she wore a dress and stockings that had matching embroidery, and real leather boots lined with fur.  
  
Allison's mother had hair as red as Lydia's, but where Lydia was pretty and quiet, Mrs. Argent was beautiful and stern, her brows perpetually drawn and her bright red lips in a thin line. Even though her daughter's cheeks and nose had gone red with the cold, her face was pale. She looked like ice queens in storybooks, like she could draw snowflakes with her fingers and guide them as they fell.  
  
She pulled a small tin of mints from her pocket and passed one to her daughter. Allison shivered when she put it on her tongue. Scott shivered too.  
  
The three other winners and their parents had all dressed very nicely for the occasion. In comparison, even though they were in their cleanest clothes, the boys were not so well dressed. Though, being little boys, this did not bother Stiles and Scott, it did mean that they were just that much colder than the others, in second and third-hand clothes with all of the lining worn out of them already.  
  
But just before the boys' shivers of excitement could turn to shivers of cold, the great gates retracted with a near-silent hiss.  
  
Reverently, the crowd behind the ticket winners went still as statues, hardly daring to speak above a whisper.  
  
The front door of the factory opened, and two figures stepped out one after the other. The first was a boy that was perhaps just beginning to grow into a teenager. He had dark hair that was cut short, and thick eyebrows. He wasn't wearing a coat, only a long-sleeved gray shirt. He turned back to reach for the second figure, a man who held tightly to a long, polished cane. He was in a long, heavy, brown coat that reached all the way to his knees. He wore dark gray gloves. He was bundled up in a gray scarf with a delicate pattern on it in dark blue, and his hair had been combed back over his head in one smooth wave.  
  
The man walked slowly, carefully over the ice. He favored his left leg. The boy kept his hand under the man's elbow, keeping pace with him. When the man slipped on the ice at the bottom of the factory steps, the boy reached out with both hands to catch him and keep him steady. Together, boy and man picked their way carefully down to the gates, and when they were within ten feet of the ticket winners, they finally stopped.  
  
The man smiled, and the expression changed his entire face. It warmed him, gave crinkles to the corners of his eyes.  
  
He said, "Hello, my dear ticket holders. My name is Peter Hale, and this is my nephew, Derek."  
  
Derek nodded, but didn't smile. He was entirely too busy standing beside his uncle and holding him up so he did not totter on the ice.  
  
"I have seen you all in the news, even just this morning. Please, do come in, I feel as though you are my friends already," said Peter. He beckoned them in with a wave of his hand.  
  
Nearly as one, the winners and their parents stepped forward. After five steps, the gates of the factory slid closed behind them with another quiet hiss.  
  
Peter Hale walked very slowly and very carefully back toward the door of the factory, with Derek holding his elbow. He said, "I do know of you all. And how fantastically lucky are we, that we will share in this adventure today."  
  
"Um," said Scott, from the edge of the group following Peter. "Are you okay?"  
  
Peter paused to look over at him. He smiled again. "I'm feeling wonderful, Scott."  
  
"But you're limping," pressed Scott. Then, his eyes widened. "You know my name?"  
  
"Of course I do. I read the newspaper this morning. You and Stiles defied all probability, didn't you."  
  
Stiles flushed. "You don't think we cheated, do you?" he asked in a voice near a whisper.  
  
Peter Hale laughed. "Of course not, my boy. Figuring it out is not cheating."  
  
"Figuring what out?" echoed Scott.  
  
Peter Hale resumed walking. "Come now, come now, there's so very much to see."  
  
On Peter's other side, Lydia took an extra step up to smile at Derek. She twirled her hair around her finger and said, "It's nice to meet you too."  
  
Derek barely looked away from his uncle, but he said a quiet, "Yeah."  
  
Lydia smiled brightly at him, then fell back into step beside her father with a bit of a pout and a sigh. Allison reached out to her and took her hand with a smile. " _Bonjour_."  
  
" _Mon ami_ ," chirped Lydia in response.  
  
Jackson rolled his eyes. "Are we going to be _crawling_ through this whole thing?"  
  
"Well," said Peter, "you may if you'd like to. I prefer this charming little scooter, myself." He stepped through the front doors of the factory, and gestured to a small motorized wheelchair parked just behind them.   
  
Derek helped him settle into the seat. When Peter lay his hands over the armrests, they lit up with controls.   
  
Derek leaned down to Peter's ear and said, "It's nearly ten fifteen."  
  
Peter raised one hand and said, "Oh, then please go and make sure it hasn't over boiled."  
  
Derek nodded, and turned his back on the assembled winners and their guardians, and disappeared through a door in the entryway.  
  
"Oh, where is he going?" asked Allison.   
  
"Why, he's got boiled sweets to boil," said Peter, guiding his chair to roll soundlessly down the hall. "Leave your coats anywhere you like; they won't be disturbed."  
  
As the warmth of the factory started to penetrate the residual cold still clinging from outside, the group shed their coats and scarves. They hung them on pegs protruding from the walls, and quickly fell into step behind Peter's chair.  
  
"I could take your coat for you, sir," said Allison, holding out her hand to Peter. "Or your scarf? It's very warm in here."  
  
"Oh, my dear Allison, thank you, no," said Peter, settling down into his scarf a bit better. "I'm quite comfortable." He smiled at her. "And call me Peter."  
  
"Thank you, Peter," repeated Allison, smiling in return.   
  
Peter turned his chair, rolling it backwards so he could address his guests. "Now, I can hardly contain my excitement, so I've decided to show you my favorite receiving room. I must ask you to please try and contain yourselves, because running and screaming do tend to upset my workers."  
  
"Your workers? Shouldn't your employees be used to children?" asked Mrs. Argent, one eyebrow arched.  
  
Peter shook his head. "Why, no. It's been years since children have been within these walls. The only child around here now is Derek, and he's a very quiet young man."  
  
"Where does he go to school?" asked Lydia. "Does he have many friends?"  
  
Peter smiled. "Now, don't you worry. I've home schooled Derek myself, and I can assure you that he is friendly on the inside."  
  
"But isn't he lonely? Aren't you?" asked Scott, frowning.  
  
Peter smiled at him. "You're a sweet boy, Scott," he answered, before turning the chair to roll forward again.  
  
"Now, please remember what I've said, and do try to be quiet and calm."  
  
They came to a simple, gray door with a key code. Peter's fingers danced over the buttons, and the door slid open to reveal a great and beautiful zen garden that extended for hundreds of yards in every direction.  
  
Up above, a blue sky had been painted on the ceiling, and diffuse light streamed in from skylights. At ground level, trees spread their leaves to soak in the light, bearing boughs laden with fruit, and others with birds. Flowers bloomed at their bases, and others climbed the larger rocks in curling, trailing vines.  
  
The edges of the meticulously groomed garden were trimmed with grass, and in one corner a waterfall burbled gently over mossy rocks.  
  
When they took deep breaths, the initial expectation was of a green smell, the smell of dirt and growing things.  
  
Instead, the smell that met them was pure, perfect sugar.  
  
Peter said, "Everything in this room is edible, even down to the sand. Please, my dears. Try anything you like."  
  
In the ensuing stunned silence, Peter chuckled. "I promise you I am not joking. Here. Scott, my boy, could you please fetch me a handful of sand?"  
  
Scott stepped carefully around Peter's chair, and over the paving stones to the edge of the garden. He bent down and lifted a handful. The fine grains slipped between his fingers, so he cupped both of his hands around it.  
  
He came back to Peter, his cupped hands held out like an offering. Peter lifted one gloved finger, licked the tip of it, and pressed it into the sand in Scott's hands. He brought that finger to his mouth and said, "Mm," as he ate the sand.  
  
Lydia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I don't know which is worse. That you just licked dyed leather, or that you ate something people _step_ in."  
  
"It's sugar!" cried Scott, staring down at the crystals in his hands. "It's all sugar!"  
  
"Cinnamon sugar, in that quadrant," corrected Peter, smiling.  
  
Stiles said, "What do you _use_ it all for?"  
  
"To see the looks on all of your shining, young faces. Now, do go on. Try anything you like."  
  
They didn't have to be told twice. The winners and their parents fanned out through the garden. Despite Peter's warnings, Jackson and Allison took off running, excited and curious.   
  
Stiles and Scott were entranced by the sand, digging through it to find hidden sweet stones made of sugar and bubble gum.  
  
Lydia pulled a candy apple from a nearby tree and took a bite with a great, satisfying _crunch_.   
  
Mother McCall found a batch of freshly-baked sugar cookies arranged in a mosaic by the fountain.  
  
Papa Stilinski realized the bark on the trees was made of pure black licorice, and gently peeled away a piece of it to tuck into his cheek.  
  
Mrs. Argent plucked a leaf from the tree nearest her and found it was made of spearmint, with a sugar coating that made it glisten in the light.  
  
Mr. Martin plucked a candied orange from a tree and sighed over the rind as it melted in his mouth.  
  
Mr. Whittemore looked up and said, "Oh, there are golden flowers at the tops of the trees. Edible gold leaf?"  
  
"Why, yes," said Peter. "It helps keep them from melting in the heat."  
  
"Fascinating," said Mr. Whittemore. "They're beautiful."  
  
"Thank you," said Peter. "We try."  
  
Allison made her way all the way down to the waterfall, kneeling beside a cluster of floating water lilies. Delicately, she reached out to lift a bloom. It easily came free of the leaf, dry and soft. When she brought it to her face, she took a deep breath of its floral scent, and let it out on a surprised scream.  
  
"Allison!" gasped Mrs. Argent, turning toward the waterfall in alarm.  
  
Allison froze, resting on her knees, one finger extended to the opposite bank of the river. "There are dogs in here! How did dogs get in?"  
  
Stiles and Scott ran headlong toward the bank of the river, skidding on sugar sand. Scott ran to Allison's side, but Stiles just stared.  
  
Allison was right. Across the river, two full-sized black poodles hauled wheelbarrows full of glistening rock candy. Not far from the wheelbarrow track, a pack of dachshunds and terriers dug ferociously into a boulder, excavating new rock candy formations. Each dog had been shaved quite nearly down to the skin, and they wore silver vests and protective booties.   
  
"What are they doing?" asked Papa Stilinski.  
  
Peter rolled his wheelchair down the path to the water and said, quite easily, "Why, they're mining."  
  
Lydia laughed. "Did you set that joke up just for us, Peter?"  
  
"It's horribly unhygenic," sniffed Mrs. Argent.  
  
"I assure you, my dear, that every necessary precaution has been taken. The workers involved with packaging and production are naturally single-coat breeds. In fact, poodles are hypoallergenic," said Peter.  
  
Mr. Whittemore snorted. "And how did you get that one past the health inspectors? This is a scandal waiting to happen!"  
  
Mr. Martin said, "Exactly. He would have been shut down if they were actually involved in production. This is just a little trick - the dogs are confined to that bank."  
  
Lydia clapped her hands. "It's a beautiful show. Who is your dog trainer? All of my dogs are dreadfully boring. They hardly do anything!"  
  
"Now, Lydia," said Mr. Martin, with just a hint of reproach, "Agility competitions are nothing to sneeze at."  
  
Lydia lifted her chin. "I'd like to see them dig for rock candy. Look, they don't even scratch it!"  
  
Scott knelt down by Allison and asked, "Are you okay?"  
  
Allison gave him a shaky smile and pushed herself up, dusting off her knees. There were two dim, green splotches on her stockings from where her weight ground the blades of grass beneath her. She opened her mouth to assure Scott, but stopped at a sharp look from her mother.  
  
She bent down and rolled her stockings toward her ankles so the stains no longer showed.  
  
Scott rose and stood beside her, looking down at the lily blossom cradled in her hands.  
  
Peter said, "Ah, you've found me out. This river is distilled water. I don't permit the dogs to swim in it. They are, in fact, confined to that bank."  
  
While the others laughed, Stiles gasped. "That's why you don't sell chocolate! Isn't it?"  
  
When he turned to Peter, he found he was being given a pleased smile. "Exactly, Stiles. What a brilliant young man."  
  
Stiles flushed. "It just makes sense. Chocolate is toxic to dogs."  
  
Peter nodded, and gestured to the terriers and dachshunds making a cloud of dust at the base of the boulder. "Sometimes they'll split their protective gloves. Sometimes they'll come out of a long day coated in sugar. And a dog's instinct is to groom. I wouldn't dare risk it, especially not on such a loyal workforce."  
  
Stiles nodded his agreement. "That's--"  
  
"Don't tell me you're still trying to convince us," said Lydia, putting her hands on her hips. "We've figured it out already." Charitably, with a bat of her long, pretty lashes, she said, "It _was_ funny."  
  
Peter turned his smile on her. "A healthy sense of skepticism will serve you well, young lady. Never stop looking until you're satisfied with the truth."  
  
Lydia appeared to vacillate between pride and annoyance, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows. She took a sharp breath through her nose to answer, when a sickening crack  cut through the air.  
  
A second later, Jackson howled.  
  
Peter said, "Oh, my."  
  
Jackson lay in a crater of sugar sand, clutching at his leg. The bough of one of the trees with a golden flower at the top had cracked away, the black licorice bark hanging, the hard-candy ringed skeleton shattered around Jackson.  
  
"The tree fell on him!" cried Mr. Whittemore.  
  
"Certainly not," said Peter, "The candy they're built from is perfectly able to support its own weight and then some. Each branch could take the weight of an additional forty pounds or so - certainly enough to accommodate my Singers when harvest time comes."  
  
Stiles gaped. "You have dogs that can climb _trees_?"  
  
"Yes, but the trees aren't built for little boys to climb," said Peter contemplatively.   
  
Mr. Whittemore ran to his son's side, touching his shoulder. "It is broken?"  
  
"Get off me!" snarled Jackson, his face red and streaked with tears.  
  
Mr. Whittemore let go, his brow creased. "Come on, Jackson, let me have a look at it."  
  
Allison gasped. "More dogs. Look!" She pointed to the wall nearest the tree.   
  
Sure enough, three Great Danes trotted toward them across the garden, dressed in white vests with red trim. They all had bags strapped to their backs, but the largest also dragged a long cloth banner along the ground behind it.  
  
Silently, they surrounded Mr. Whittemore and Jackson.  
  
Jackson screamed. "Get these stupid dogs away from me!"  
  
"This isn't funny anymore, Hale," said Mr. Whittemore. "My boy needs a _real_ doctor."  
  
Peter's relaxed smile stayed in place. "And he'll see one. But some of the world's greatest explorers have ridden dogsleds. It'll give him a gentler ride than if you were to try to carry him."  
  
Gently, the two smaller Danes started to nose Jackson toward the stretcher. Jackson struggled until one of the dogs accidentally brushed its nose against his leg. Then, with a sharp cry, he went still.   
  
The dogs nosed Jackson onto the stretcher. The biggest Great Dane looked to Peter, who waved a hand and said, "The infirmary. Pull the X-Ray machine out of the Halloween supplies so you know what you're working with."  
  
The biggest dog gave a quiet chuff of agreement, then began to haul Jackson away.   
  
The two smaller dogs nudged the backs of Mr. Whittemore's knees  to help him follow.   
  
"This isn't over, Hale," he growled,  pointing an accusing finger over the backs of the dogs. "If he doesn't get the best doctor you can buy, I'm going _straight_ to the papers about these filthy mutts!"  
  
Peter smiled and waved. "I wouldn't dream of denying a single thing to your beloved son."  
  
The dogs and the Whittemores disappeared down the hall.   
  
Scott looked up to the top of the tree. "Was he after a golden flower?"  
  
Stiles tucked his hands into his pockets. "There's even age rings in the tree. It looks like wood."  
  
"Tastes like wood too," said Peter smoothly.   
  
"You need to stop making jokes," said Lydia. "It's not funny anymore. You don't have an X-Ray machine and you know it."  
  
Peter turned to her and said, "I beg your pardon? How else am I to get all of those skeletons just right without an X-Ray?"  
  
Lydia fish mouthed, but Peter removed his attention from her before she could respond.  
  
"Now, my dear guests, if you would be so kind. It appears we've been in this room quite long enough. Let us move on," said he.  
  
Stiles knelt down by the broken bough and found a small sliver of hard candy. When he placed it on his tongue, his mouth filled with the thick, living flavor of wood cut with maple.  
  
"Stiles!" called Scott. Already the party was moving on down toward the water. Stiles bounded across the sand, crunching the candy between his back teeth.   
  
"Such a shame about that boy," said Mother McCall. "I hope he'll be alright."  
  
Papa Stilinski said, "Of course he will be. Once the bone's set, he'll heal in no time. And maybe next time he'll look before he leaps."  
  
"He didn't leap, though," said Scott, looking up. "He climbed."  
  
They followed Peter down the winding path to the waterfall itself in the back corner of the massive room. His wheelchair glided softly over the ground, barely making any noise at all. When he reached the misty edge of the waterfall he swiveled the seat around to face the group.  
  
"Duck under, if you please. You'll stay quite dry. From here we'll make our way into the factory so you can see how some of my sweets are really produced."  
  
"Peter," said Allison, still cradling the water lily, "How did you get these to float? Why don't the lily-pads melt in the water?"  
  
"They just have to be less dense," said Lydia. "Enough air bubbles would do it."  
  
Peter gave an encouraging nod. "That's an interesting theory."  
  
"Is it true? Is she right?" pressed Allison, looking down at the flower in her hands. "This seems very heavy."  
  
"So are ships, my dear." Peter gestured toward the waterfall. "Now, please, let's hurry along."  
  
Allison gave him a dissatisfied look, but ducked under the waterfall, her mother close behind. Next came Lydia and her father, and after her went Stiles and Scott and Mother McCall.  
  
Papa Stilinski stayed behind, walking next to Peter's chair. "The Whittemore boy," he began.  
  
Peter raised a hand. "He'll be perfectly fine, and I dare say his father will similarly be satisfied. Unusual though my methods may be, they are perfectly effective." With that, he put on a touch more speed to catch up with the rest of the group.   
  
They clustered, four little children and four adults, at the edge of what appeared to be a subway platform, glistening with sterile gray plastic.   
  
With a soft hiss, a bullet train pulled up to the platform, lit in blue and yellow lights. A ramp extended from the door and rolled out a soft, gray carpet.  
  
"All aboard," said Peter, "hurry now. This train keeps a tight schedule."

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to my Bean.  
> Thanks also to Roald Dahl, from whom I cribbed a lot of the sentence structure of the introduction. Lovers of the book may have recognized it, yers.  
> Story title is from one of my favorite lines in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.


End file.
